Shadows
by Brightbird
Summary: Part One of Book of Shadows. On All Hallows Eve, the veil between life and death parts, allowing Vincent to speak with the dead. He's not happy about it. Rating chosen for a bit of swearing. Takes place post-Dirge. Warning: My Vincent is a piece of work, as will become even more apparent in Part Two.


It's All Hallows Eve at the old Valentine estate, and the spirits are restless.

One spirit, in particular.

Vincent comes here every October 31st, drawn by some imperative in his blood and bones that he doesn't understand, and can't resist. He'd rather be anywhere else, but here he stands, face to face with the one person under heaven - or under earth - that he least wants to see.

Oh, there are a couple of other spirits on his shit list. One is caught in crystal like a fly in amber, and the other was flung howling into the Lifestream. Neither has shown any signs of haunting him, unlike this one.

He crosses his arms, his gold-tipped claws tapping a rapid rhythm on black leather.

"Father. Must we do this every year?"

Grimoire Valentine, little more than a smudge of ash-colored smoke against the orange sunset, scowls at him.

"Is that how you show respect for your ancestors, boy?"

"I didn't call you out of the grave, old man."

"You're older now," says Grimoire, "than I was when I died."

"Oh, no," Vincent purrs, "I'm still twenty-seven."

"And still insolent." Grimoire paces closer, fraying at the edges, drifting on the wind. "Have you finally done what I asked of you?"

"Maybe." Vincent tilts his head. "What's it worth to you?"

"You fool!" Grimoire is in his face, dense as storm-clouds, growing colder by the second. "Would you bargain with the dead? Be careful what you ask for!"

There's nothing Vincent can ask for, and hope to receive; nothing Grimoire can give him. His muscles quiver, torn between the desire to be gone and the need to be here. He detests this game, but after all, why fight it? Why not get it over with?

Frost forms on the golden gauntlet as Vincent extends his hand, keeping his father's shade at arm's length. Milky radiance gleams between his claws, one flash of the crystal sphere before he hides it away again in the murky crimson depths of his cloak. He smirks.

"Satisfied?"

Eyes closed, his father sighs. "You found it. Thank the gods."

Vincent snorts. "Gods, my ass. It took forever. It was black as sin down there. If I'd had to come up for air I'd still be searching for it. I hate swimming."

Grimoire ignores his complaints, just as he always has. He begins to pace, hands clasped behind his back, in what Vincent calls his pompous professor pose.

"All right. You've got it. Now we'll see if I was right about reviving its power. My old laboratory is still intact, if a bit dusty." He waves an arm at the mansion that sits brooding in the shadows, doors and windows boarded shut. "It shouldn't take you long to put it to rights-"

"No."

"What?" Grimoire stops, staring.

Vincent steps closer. His breath clouds the air between them. "I said no. Why should I do your bidding like a servant? What have you done for me lately?"

Grimoire's form expands, going taller, blacker. _"I died for you!"_

"You died for Lucrecia, not for me! You should have let the blast take her!" Vincent's heart should be pounding like a trip-hammer by now…but it can't. It will always beat at the same slow, steady rhythm, no matter what.

He raises his hand- _his_ hand, the human one. It's shaking, and his long fingers close on his father's incorporeal form, leaving him with a fistful of nothing. His throat spasms; words come fast and hard as bullets.

"What am I to you, old man? Where were you when that lunatic carved me up and sewed me back together like some patchwork mannequin? Where were you when Lucrecia bound me to a god?"

Grimoire dwindles, ashen-gray once more. "I was…already dead."

"How very convenient."

Grimoire is silent. Obstinate to the last, Vincent simply stands, eyes closed, counting his own heart-beats. When the air stirs softly against his face, he opens his eyes to full night.

"You are my son," says Grimoire. "And you're right. I failed you."

He bows from the waist like a courtier to a king, midnight hair falling forward to hide his lined face. "The materia will keep for another year, at least. I release you."

Vincent has no words. He turns away.

"Vincent."

He stops, looks over his shoulder. Grimoire is fading, a shadow among shadows.

"I ask you only to keep it hidden, somewhere safe."

Vincent smiles to himself. "Don't worry. I know just the place." 


End file.
